Live Your Verb

Become a person of action.

Tag: let it go (page 1 of 2)

Stop Waiting for It

Robert Brault Quote

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Emergency Compliments

Having one of those days? Your hair won’t cooperate, your boss hated your suggestion at the board meeting and your dinner date cancelled? No need to wait until you can get some emotional bolstering from friends or family – visit and get a little dose of feel-better right now. Or at least get a good laugh. (Okay, the good laugh is more likely, but hey, let’s not be picky, okay?)

Some fun examples:



And, of course, my personal favorite:


If you’re feeling particularly generous, you can also submit compliments that will be given to other visitors. Write one or two and brighten someone else’s day.

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My favorite discovery of late is

Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like: calm. Remember the good ol’ days before we were always queued up in Netflix, when we could set up our televisions to show that fake fireplace scene and add some ambiance to our fireplace-free lives? It’s sort of like that but much, much better.

The website is an ongoing reel of serene views, like rain falling and clouds moving past, accompanied by tranquil music – or no music, should you decide that you’re going to be so dang calm that you will just listen to silence and the slow movement of your breath in and out (because you’re breathing slowly, right?).

If you meditate like I do, there’s even a meditation clock. And, if you’re, er, ultra-neurotic and need some assistance, there’s a “guided calm” setting – click the button and a soothing voice will talk you through the steps of relaxation.

Did I mention it’s free? Bookmark it today and take a break. You know you need it. clouds lake underwater

and my personal favorite: rain

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out of tea

A thought.
A single, tiny thing.
Just a thing.
That lingers and lolls
across the upholstery
of my insecurities.
It won’t make room
for another or,
at the very least,
take its feet off my

I’ve stopped
offering it

If left unfed,
how long will this
thought survive?

Will it
curl and harden,
to the ground
like the last leaf
admitting defeat
to winter’s arrival?
One more thing
to sweep up.

Will it wander
down the hall,
settle into
the guestroom,
slide into sleep
as I dust shelves
and mend curtains?

Will. it. simply.

I can’t wait.
I have things to
attend to. And
I don’t want to
leave this
single, tiny thing
unattended, free
to linger and loll
and make a mess
of my house.

I’m out of tea
and out of time.

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Running Late

Life has always been a ticking clock for me. As the child of a sick parent, there is never enough time. Illness and loss take a seat at the breakfast table, echo each laugh, constantly interrupt the conversation. The passing minutes are tallied, clung to, clutched close - because there is a looming shortage of those minutes, an alarm clock that will sound at any moment. Days are lived on the edge of time.

And so, I rush. To thoroughly soak myself in anyone and anything that brings joy. To arrive, accomplish, discover, make a mark of some sort – to know that, just for a time, I have been a stunning embodiment of life. I am always looking for the next finish line. I need to assure myself I reached the goal, that I have something to show for this life. Proof. I need proof that I lived… And the finish lines I haven’t crossed, that have kept me running for a lifetime, are a constant source of anguish. Because I am afraid. Really, truly afraid. That time will run out before I meet my destination. I can work and dance and write and love but I can’t relax, exhale and listen to the sands run through the hourglass.

This is because I was raised to think more about the death of something than its beginning, its springtime. Because I have always been somewhat of a late bloomer. Because I don’t know how to untangle the very state of happiness from the fear that it will slip away as soon as my fingers graze its soft underbelly.

…all this talk of getting ahead – I’d just like to feel like I’ve caught up. Or learn to let go enough to realize it when I’ve arrived.

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Fast Getaway

Why do we prolong our suffering, insist on a rite or a moment of closure? Sometimes it is simply best to retreat, swiftly, without fuss, as soon as we realize it isn’t working. No carefully chosen words, no final piercing statement, no desperate attempts to mend something that is broken beyond repair.

Because, really, what’s the point? On the other side of all that fuss still lies The End.

We will make excuses, cling to hope, wait for that one crucial gesture to turn it all around – but it won’t come. And we know. Deep down, we know the exact moment it is really over. We just won’t accept it or admit it.

Next time – and there will be a next time – embrace the loss and uncertainty. Run toward it.

Because the faster we move through the darkness, the sooner we will find the light. When we learn to let ourselves fall hard, and grieve harder, we also learn to stand tall and, finally, fly again.

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Giving Up or Growing Up

At what point do I give up the dream?

When should I decide it is unattainable, no easier to grasp than the receding rays of sunlight in those final days of summer?

Would it be so tragic to file it away with childhood notions of being able to fly away or becoming a famous ballerina? Accepting those dreams as whimsical, things that are inevitably shelved along with building blocks and board games, is part of stepping into adulthood, part of developing an awareness of strengths and weaknesses, reality versus idealism, which goals are worth pursuing and which are better left among the toys that have been outgrown… So should it be the same with this dream, that I finally accept it as just a sweet idea that will never manifest in any tangible way?

Is that giving up, or just growing up?

A friend often talks of reframing thoughts that bother us, shifting our perspectives to look upon our lives in a new light so we find a different lesson, a different reaction, a different emotion to take away from it…

Okay. I’ll reframe: I have learned that I can still live fully, that I can be wrapped up in beauty and trust and tenderness with a man I can’t call my own. I can choose to live in the moment with him, take his hand when he offers it and let him pull me into the sky for a while and, when he asks, simply open my hands and float back down to earth, away from him… Which means maybe this dream of mine won’t be the picture I had in my head, a rich saturation of colors and bold shapes; maybe it will be more abstract, like quick flashes of film. But I would still have those moments, that little while of living. Would that be enough? Would I feel fulfilled?

It seems silly to forego the opportunity to live that little-while adventure with him to continue to wait. Wait for a notion that exists only in my head, that may never come true. Wait for another man that may not arrive…

But then… is this settling?

Is growing up really nothing more than letting go?

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Postcard from the Clouds

Maybe the ending isn’t important. Maybe the only thing that will matter is that I jumped in, soaked you up without hesitation, loved you so completely. I sit here empty-handed and yet my heart is full – brimming. Because I kissed and laughed and flew and fell, and because I found the beauty in all of it. Because I chose a passionate life, even when it hurt, even when it meant losing the one who had sparked the flame. I lived. Maybe I can’t take you with me but I can carry this spirit (our spirit) with me, reincarnated, and braid it into my wings… I may fly farther but I will keep it, always.

I wish the same for you. That you will find new wings. That you will remember us. That you will remember the lightness of love. That you will live, really live, and fly again after each fall.

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Falling, Faltering

I fell for someone recently. I won’t say I fell in the Capital-L Thing of All Things… But I stumbled into his arms, decided I was happy there, tried to stay.

He (is this where I insert an “of course”?) didn’t fall. And I was left clothed in foolishness - for being so honest, so trusting, so hopeful.

And… well, I feel like I haven’t breathed since he left. I am anguished over the spiteful things I said to mask my own gaping vulnerability. I am embarrassed I melted into such an insecure puddle of Stereotypical Female for a few days. I am disappointed in myself for not accepting the situation with more strength and grace. I loathe how silent and gray my days have been without his sweet spirit to carry with me. All these emotions are wrapped around my ribs, pulled taut, tied in such an elaborate knot…

This got me thinking about why we focus on the voids (This isn’t enough… I need this… I want this…) instead of the full, even brimming, parts of our lives that often accompany them. Because if I stop to think – really think, in that uncomfortable way of forcing myself to acknowledge every little positive – this is what I come up with:

Falling for him was a considerable step forward, because it proved just that -  I can fall. For a long time I didn’t think I was capable of ever doing so again, that I had reached some sort of lifetime quota of time spent smitten over a man. But no, that old feeling was there. It returned slowly, gingerly, less ostentatious than before, but it was there, longing to spread its wings.

And the more time I spent with him, the more my old brave self was unearthed. I began trying new things, taking risks, speaking and acting without constantly double-checking, tuning, censoring. The only reason he even knew I fell is because I dared to tell him - how bold, how unlike the Me of Recent Years!

So, as much as I feel the sting of rejection and loss, I’m staying on this path. I may have stumbled into him, I may have tripped us both up momentarily, but I know I’m heading in the right direction. In the past, I made mistakes because I was striving to please a man, to become worthy of his affections by disguising the parts of me that weren’t Made to His Specifications. But my mistakes of late – they’re the product of me putting my own happiness ahead of any man’s uninterrupted comfort, of me reveling in the tiny delights I find in uncovering pieces of myself. I’m making mistakes because I’m aching to live a passionate, brave, colorful, honest life – I can’t think of any better reasons to falter.

So, here I am, living, reawakening and, yes, faltering. I will tend to my wounds, wait until I can breathe again… and then I’ll go running headlong into my next mistake…

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